


Thermostat

by the_misfortune_teller



Series: Right Where I Belong [17]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 17:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_misfortune_teller/pseuds/the_misfortune_teller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow on fic from <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/588130/chapters/1057484">I'll Be With You Through The Dark</a>.</p>
<p>Leave the thermostat alone, Stiles. You're upsetting Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thermostat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeCaStDe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCaStDe/gifts).



> Prompt: (+ 6 years, 10 months) Stiles turns the thermostat up too high whenever it gets cold rather than putting on more layers.
> 
> Gifting this to the thoroughly awesome [DeCaStDe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCaStDe/pseuds/DeCaStDe%22) because she's my favourite! C: x

Derek scowls the minute he steps into the house; it feels like he’s just opened the oven door, not the front door.

“Don’t turn that down!” Stiles calls through from the lounge as he reaches for the thermostat. Derek ignores him and turns the dial to a more reasonable and environmentally conscious setting.

“You’re the reason global warming is happening.”

“Good,” Stiles replies as Derek walks into the lounge, “maybe if I keep turning the thermostat up high the planet will get the hint and warm the fuck up. Why is it so cold? We live in California for God’s sake.”

“Northern California,” Derek reminds him, sitting down on the couch and resting his hand on Stiles’ thigh when he automatically drapes his legs over Derek’s own, “and this really isn’t cold; it’s fifty degrees out there. You do realise you probably wouldn’t be so cold if you put more clothes on, right?”

“You do realise you can suck my dick?”

“Maybe later,” Derek smiles, sliding his hand under Stiles’ shorts so he can stroke his leg with his thumb.

“Anyway,” Stiles continues, shifting into a more comfortable position, “it’s my day off.  There’s no legal obligation to wear clothes when I don’t have to work.”

“There is when you don’t pay anything towards the heating bills. And when you turn the place into a sauna.”

“Not all of us have a crazy supernaturally high body temperature,” Stiles shrugs, “maybe if I had your constitution, I’d be quite happy to live in a refrigerator. But guess what, I don’t. Hence being intimately acquainted with the thermostat.”

Derek just smiles at him, continuing to trace circles on the inside of his thigh with his thumb, content to relax and listen to the sound to Stiles’ chattering away at him. Stiles turns his attention back to the book he’s been reading and goes quiet, letting his legs flop open a little more as Derek moves his hand higher.

“You’re distracting,” Stiles tells him quietly some ten minutes later, not looking up from his book.

“ _You’re_ distracting, you mean,” Derek retorts playfully, “you’re not wearing any underwear.”

“Day off and all that,” Stiles replies, scooting down the couch a little so Derek’s hand is closer to his half hard cock. He starts reading again, biting at his bottom lip as Derek very deliberately avoids touching his cock, dragging his finger nails lightly over the warm skin of his inner thigh. “I’m getting cold again you know.”

“Go put more clothes on then,” Derek shrugs, moving his hand back towards Stiles’ knee.

“Hell no. You can finish what you started.” Stiles tells him, dropping his book on the floor and watching Derek expectantly.

“But you’re cold...” Derek says innocently, withdrawing his hand from the leg of Stiles’ shorts and leaning back with his arms behind his head.

“Yeah, but I’m also rocking a Derek induced boner, and trust me on this, I can address the being cold situation later.”

“You might get sick.”

“No one gets sick from being cold, Derek,” Stiles sighs, unabashedly rubbing the heel of his hand across his crotch and keeping his eyes fixed on Derek as he licks his lips.

Derek smiles back at him and grabs hold of his wrist, restraining him gently to stop him from touching himself. Stiles bares his teeth and growls at him (Stiles still thinks dog jokes and growling are hilarious: they’re really not) as he tries to pull his wrist out of Derek’s grip. Derek moves quickly, slipping off the couch and pulling Stiles around so his feet are flat on the floor and he can kneel between his legs. He wraps his free hand around Stiles’ other wrist and lowers his head to mouth at Stiles’ dick through the fabric of his shorts, enjoying the little moan Stiles fails to stifle.

They’re not even proper shorts, just an old pair of Derek’s sweats that Stiles took a liking to for some reason and cut off at the knee when they became too ripped around the bottom of the legs. They’re worn and faded and softened from so many washes over the years. Derek likes the way they sit low on Stiles’ hips, revealing part of his tattoo and more than a suggestion of dark hair leading up from the waistband.

He kneels up a little, lifting his head away from Stiles’ crotch and leans back so he can admire him.

“Tease,” Stiles murmurs, nudging Derek in the ribs with his knee. Derek tightens his grip on his wrists momentarily and leans forward, tracing the top spiral of Stiles’ tattoo with his tongue. Stiles arches his back, another soft moan escaping his lips as he watches Derek intently, his mouth hanging open. Derek turns his attention to Stiles’ other hip, the one that’s still free of any tattoos, and leans forward, licking his way up from Stiles’ waistband, following the sharp jut of his hip bone  and stopping only to suck a small hickey against Stiles’ pale skin.

Stiles starts to fidget impatiently as Derek trails hot, fleeting kisses across his stomach; he brushes his thumbs over the thin skin of Stiles’ wrists, enjoying the way he can feel his pulse racing. He moves lower again, pausing to graze his teeth over a patch of skin to the left of Stiles’ belly button, smiling when he gasps and squirms. When he reaches the waistband of Stiles’ short again, he sits back to admire his handiwork; Stiles’ is breathing heavily as he stares down at him. There’s a damp spot the front of his shorts, damp from where his cock is leaking in anticipation.

“What?” Stiles asks thickly when he realises Derek is just sitting and staring up at him.

“You,” Derek replies with a small smile, “do you even know what you look like right now?”

“Like an idiot with a hard on and a stupid grin?” Stiles mumbles as he blushes. Derek smiles again, and presses another kiss against Stiles’ stomach. Even after seven and a bit years, Stiles still gets uncomfortable with him earnestly paying compliments. Which makes him a filthy hypocrite; he’s constantly telling Derek how attractive he thinks he is, and still likes to make loud remarks about how amazing he thinks Derek’s cock is in front of the pack but won’t accept that Derek thinks he’s gorgeous.

“Not what I was thinking,” Derek tells him, rubbing Stiles’ wrist with his thumb again. “Can I?” He adds, nodding to where Stiles’ erect cock is making his shorts tent obscenely. He’s desperate to get Stiles’ dick his mouth, to feel the soft, heavy weight of it on his tongue, but he loves making Stiles wait nearly as much as he loves the taste of him; likes the way his cheeks flush red in anticipation, the way his pulse starts racing, the way he starts begging desperately when Derek doesn’t immediately take him in his mouth.

Stiles just bites his bottom lip and nods, lifting himself off the couch slightly when Derek pats the side of his thigh and pulls his shorts lower. Above him, Stiles grumbles quietly about the cold again as Derek releases his hold on his wrists, wrapping his thumb and forefinger around the base of his cock instead. He hears Stiles’ pulse start racing again as he leans forward and slowly drags his tongue over the head of his cock, savouring the taste of him on his tongue.

“You’re obscene,” Stiles murmurs blissfully, sliding one hand around the back of Derek’s head and threading his fingers through his hair. Derek gives a little huff of laughter in response, continuing to lick gently at the head of Stiles’ cock until he starts to fidget again and demands more.

“And you’re impatient,” Derek tells him before giving him one more torturously slow lick. Stiles tugs lightly on his hair and just manages to stifle a gasp as Derek  lowers his head further and takes his cock in his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out as he starts to lick and suck at him. Stiles goes quiet, keeping his hand twisted in Derek’s hair. Derek is certain that he likes sucking Stiles’ cock almost as much as Stiles likes it: there’s something very obscene about the quiet moaning noises Stiles makes, the way he curses under his breath when Derek licks his way up the underside of his dick and flicks his tongue against a particularly sensitive spot just below the head. He loves the way Stiles is constantly leaking, flooding his mouth with a taste of what’s to come, no pun intended.

He sometimes wonders what it’s like for Stiles when he blows him, having to rely on Derek telling him when he’s about to come. Derek thinks his favourite noise in the world is probably the little hitch in Stiles’ breathing right before he comes. That or the way his heart starts to beat faster when he tells Derek he loves him.

Derek glances up when he hears Stiles whisper his name; Stiles is watching him through half lidded eyes, an impossibly fond smile on his face. He untangles his fingers from Derek’s hair and moves his hand until he’s cupping his cheek, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb.

“Do _you_ even know what _you_ look like right now?” Stiles asks with a quiet laugh.

Derek doesn’t reply, but keeps his gaze fixed on Stiles; he knows exactly what he looks when he’s blowing Stiles. Mostly because Stiles insisted on filming him doing precisely that back when he was in college, claiming he ‘needed it to jerk off to’ as Derek had ‘ruined porn for him’. Derek doesn’t mind; after all, he ended up with several videos on his own cell phone of Stiles jerking off in return.

Stiles murmurs his name again, his hand working its way back into Derek’s hair so he can tug on it gently and with that, he’s coming, filling Derek’s mouth and flooding Derek’s senses; the taste of him and the smell, of contentment and love and want, the way his pulse is starting to return to normal, the little wrecked noises he’s making as Derek licks his rapidly softening cock clean until he’s too sensitive for him to continue.

“Love you,” Stiles murmurs, carding his hand through Derek’s hair. Derek smiles up at him and tucks him back into his shorts, pulling the waistband up a little higher.

“So you’re going to stop bitching that you’re cold now?”

“No. Now I’m cold but satisfied,” Stiles replies, making a sad little noise when Derek stands up and moves away from him. “You should probably come back and warm me up.”

Derek gives a small huff of laughter, unbuttoning his fly and shucking off his jeans before settling himself on the couch and pulling at Stiles until he’s seated between his legs, his back to Derek.

“You don’t want me to return the favour?” Stiles asks, turning around so he can kiss him.

“Maybe later,” Derek replies as he slips his arm around Stiles’ chest and trails his fingers up his sternum.

“Later works for me.”

“Still cold?” Derek asks quietly as Stiles leans back against his chest, sighing contentedly. Stiles nods, so he tugs the quilt off the back of the couch and hands it to him. Derek loves that quilt; Stiles’ grandmother gave it to them a few months ago when they first moved in together, telling Derek in private that she’d starting working on it shortly after she’d first met Derek and that she was “glad her grandson had finally pulled his head out of his backside” and moved in with Derek. It’s got their initials stitched onto one corner and it smells of happiness and Stiles and _home_.

“Thanks,” Stiles murmurs sleepily, throwing the quilt over their legs and pulling it up over his shoulder and Derek’s arm.

Derek says nothing, just leans down and presses a kiss against the top of Stiles’ head and tightens his grip on him. He rests his chin on Stiles’ shoulder and passes him his book when he asks for it. He thinks he’ll be OK with Stiles turning the thermostat up all the time if this is how he gets to warm him up.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr shiz](http://the-misfortune-teller.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
